


Show Me Heaven

by Chrissy24601



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Bit of angst but, But Javert is still there, Ghost Sex, M/M, Post-Seine, Surprisingly Fluffy, not exactly a fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 16:06:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrissy24601/pseuds/Chrissy24601
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I never did ask you,” Valjean began, leaning into the warmth that held him. “That time I was trimming my beard and I nicked myself, I felt this intense cold right where the cut was.”<br/><em>‘Of course that was me,'</em> the letters in the sand spelled. <em>'I am the only ghost in this house.’</em></p><p>Rated 'M' because I'm not sure <em>how</em> this sort of thing should be rated. Title is absolutely gaudy, but it will make sense in the end, I promise!</p><p>Fill for Les Mis Kink Meme prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Show Me Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> Again apologies for crappy title, but it fit the story and my mind refused to come up with anything better.
> 
> Fill for this kink meme prompt: "Javert's ghost hangs around Valjean and keeps him company in his old age. Javert only manifests in valjean's presence. In the day time they communicate via writing/moving objects and in the nighttime Javert appears in his dreams. They somehow manage to fall in love and make it work despite one of them being dead."
> 
> I hope this fluffy little fill does it justice.

* * *

“Papa?”

Valjean looked up at his daughter’s call. Cosette stood in the doorway between the parlor and the hallway. She had been about to leave, but had put on neither her coat nor her hat. And she had a very uneasy look on her face.

“What is it, my child?” he asked tenderly. “Aren’t you going out?”

The girl bit her lip – no, he corrected, she was a young woman now. “Will you be all right if I go to Marius today?”

His brow furrowed in honest confusion. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

She sighed. “I worry about you, Papa. It is so kind of you to let me spend time with Marius now he is getting better, but with Toussaint gone, too, you are all by yourself.”

“I have been by myself for most of my life, Cosette,” he said, smiling warmly. “I am used to it. You are young and should enjoy yourself. Marius is a kind young man and he likes you very much. It is only right that you should spend time with him.”

She came up to him and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Papa.” She lingered for a moment, putting her head on his shoulder the way she had done often when she was younger. “I like Marius, but when I think of you alone, in a house that is so cold in summer that it needs a fire and so warm in winter that it doesn’t… I don’t want you to get sick, Papa.”

Valjean chuckled softly. “I won’t get sick, dear child. I can take care of myself.” He stroked her hair. “As for the house being either cold or warm when you don’t expect it to…” A stray gush of wind swept under his waistcoat and shirt, despite the fact that his shirt was well tucked into his trousers. Cosette’s hair danced, too, but she didn’t seem to notice. “I—have it on good authority that each one is achieved by inversing the process that brings about the other.”

Cosette stared at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means it’s quite natural and nothing to worry about.”

“If you say so, Papa,” she said tentatively.

“I do. I will be fine, honestly. Now, get your things or you will be late.”

But Cosette gave no sign of moving. “You rarely tell me anything, Papa, and I won’t push if you insist that I shouldn’t ask, but… why do you have a tray of sand on the parlor table these days?” She gestured at a large wooden tray. It was roughly the size of four sheets of paper, filled with coarse sand that was spread out evenly over the full surface of the tray. For no apparent reason there was a tiny bronze statuette next to the tray, but otherwise the table was empty.

“I’ve noticed there is a tray like that in the kitchen, too,” she added when he said nothing.

Now Valjean pursed his lips, a hint of concern in his eyes. “It is a tad unusual, I know. But it works better than pencil and paper.”

She gave him an incredulous look. “You use the sand for writing?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

“Then why is there a third tray in your bedroom?”

“Because I don’t always know when the urge to write manifests itself,” he said, kissing her forehead.  “Now go. Your Marius is waiting for you.”

With some reluctance, Cosette exited the parlor to don her coat and hat.

“Are you _sure_ you will be all right?” she said, popping in once more. “You have been acting awfully strange lately.”

Her father shrugged, looking something close to guilty.

“I admit that it is not easy, not having you around. I must find ways to keep myself busy so I don’t miss you so much. Some of these methods may strike you are odd, but they help.”

Cosette glanced at the sand in the tray. There was absolutely nothing discernible about it.

“If you say so, Papa,” she said again, but without true conviction. “Do you wish me to be back before dinner?”

A warm draft rattled the front door in its lock.

“No, Cosette,” Valjean said, smiling. “By all means stay with Marius and M. Gillenormand for dinner. I know it pleases both them and you if you stay.”

“Thank you, Papa,” Cosette chirped. “Then I will be back later tonight.”

“Give my regards to Marius and his grandfather.”

“Oui, Papa. Au revoir!”

The front door shut behind her. Through the parlor window, Valjean watched her haste herself down the garden path and into the street to hail a fiacre.

“No need to get all impatient,” he said to the empty room. “She was about to leave anyway. She always does.”

In the tray, the coarse sand started shifting.

When a child draws lines in the sand with a stick, the figures appear as the stick is raked through the sand. In this case, however, it was as if the fully formed shape was pressed into the grains at once.

 _‘Her concern was misplaced,’_ it read. Then, below that line: _‘It was annoying.’_

“I thought it was dear of her,” said Valjean, still staring out the window.

The sand shifted. _‘It took her more than 4 months to show any!’_

“I know. That’s why it was dear of her to be so considerate anyway.”

The sand evened again under a cool gush of wind.

“What’s with the cold, Javert?” Valjean asked. “Don’t tell me she angered you.”

 _‘Considerate = caring when it counts._ ’ The sand slid back into the letters, erasing them for new ones to take their place. _‘Not months after the facts.’_

For lack of anything to caress, Valjean smoothed the sand back with his hand himself. “She didn’t know I was hurting then. I didn’t tell, and she was too worried for Marius to see it herself.”

The room turned a few degrees colder.

‘ _Lies. You did not want her to see!’_

Well, there had been that, too. “What would I have told her? That I feared that she would leave me? That I feared the loneliness?”

_‘That would have been honest.’_

“Or should I have mentioned that the only person who ever meant anything to me beside her had killed himself, and that I suspected his ghost was haunting me?”

 _‘That would have been honest, too.’_ The last word appeared slowly, almost tentatively behind the words already there. Then they disappeared and new words formed: _‘Although perhaps not a wise thing to mention.’_

“Of course not! She’d think I had gone senile.”

The statuette by the tray wobbled a bit, something that Valjean had learned to interpret as a chuckle or laughter.

 _‘Too late now,’_ appeared in the sand.

Valjean snorted a laugh himself. “I suppose you’re right. You know, if you would just learn to write with a pencil, that would be so much less conspicuous.”

 _‘I tried, remember?’_ Behind him, Valjean heard a pencil roll over his writing desk and drop uselessly to the floor. _‘Bloody gravity.’_

“If you can push over my candlesticks, you can lift a pencil,” Valjean chided.

The sand rearranged itself angrily. _‘Push = yes, lift = no,’_ it said in larger, bolder letters than normal.

“Okay, okay,” Valjean said, raising his hands. “No need to shout.” In truth he already knew all this, or he wouldn’t have placed the trays throughout the house. But as much as death had mellowed Javert’s ruthlessness, he still had that righteous anger about him. Sometimes Valjean would coax it out, just to know that he wasn’t just imagining all of this.

A warm air wrapped itself around him as the sand shifted again.

 _‘You know you are not,’_ Javert responded to the unvoiced worry.

Grateful, Valjean leaned into the warmth. It wasn’t tangible, but it was real, indeed. When he closed his eyes, pressure so light as to be barely there at all made it feel like warm hands rested on his shoulders. He found himself wishing fervently that they were real. That they could be.

The memory of the newspaper article in the _Moniteur_ cut painfully across his mind, immediately followed by a mental picture of the first time he had seen Javert in a dream. Not as a memory, but as himself. The warmth intensified, silently willing him to forget that image. But Valjean saw it too clearly: Javert soaked to the bone, his long hair tangled in unprecedented disarray. The pale and waxen skin, blue lips… And those eyes! Black as the water that had killed him.

Something hit the floor with a thud. Valjean opened one eye and saw that the little bronze statuette next to the tray had fallen over. Slowly he bent forward to pick it up and put it back before glancing at the sand.

_‘That is not me anymore.’_

“I know,” Valjean murmured. The last time Javert had appeared in his dreams, he had looked dry, clean, if still haggard and pale. And about ten years younger than he had been at the barricade. That had been two weeks ago. Valjean wondered if anything had changed since.

 _‘Yes,’_ the sand said.

“Will I see you tonight then?” 

_‘If I can manage it,_ ’ the sand spelled. Valjean resigned to his answer, the same Javert always gave him when he asked about the dreams. Javert had once explained that it was just as hard to successfully infiltrate a man’s mind as it was to infiltrate a rebellion: when it found you out, it would expunge you. Javert had tried many more times to find him there than Valjean had ever noticed.

But it was uniquely unfulfilling to speak to air. In dreams they could see, they could hear and touch. Now, in his parlor, waking, there was nothing to see, nothing to hear or touch. In the past four months Valjean had learned to attune himself to cold and warm drafts, inexplicably falling objects and the shifting sand. And that surreal, gentle pressure against his skin.

“I never did ask you,” he began, leaning into the warmth that held him. “That time I was trimming my beard and I nicked myself, I felt this intense cold right where the cut was.”

_‘Of course that was me. I am the only ghost in this house.’_

Valjean chuckled. “I knew that. To me, though, it felt like a kiss.”

The warmth intensified for a moment, but the sand remained still.

“Is that a yes?”

_‘If you want it to be.’_

The unusually evasive answer struck a chord. What _did_ he want it to have been?  Months ago, when he had first noticed the signs of a haunting and had suspected who it might be, Valjean had reflected that he had never hated Javert. Feared him, yes, but that fear had always been laced with admiration. Only then – far, far too late - had he realized that what he had felt for Javert throughout the years was more than admiration alone.

“What if I do?” he asked, voice soft. “What if I want that to have been a kiss?”

_‘Then I would not have to lie.’_

Maybe it was him, but the warmth around him got deeper. He felt a gentle pressure to his throat, beneath his left ear. From there it travelled slowly up to his cheek, feeling comfortably hot against his skin. Fully focused on enjoying the tentative sensation, Valjean arched his head back. The patch of heat touched on the corner of his mouth, too suggestive to be ignored.

“Hmm,” he purred. “Please tell me you haven’t always felt this way,” he muttered. The idea of what they might have missed was too grotesque to consider.

 _‘I have not,’_ the letters in the sand responded. But Javert could pick up on some thoughts, if they were clear enough, and Valjean wondered if this was a lie for his sake.

 _‘Do not be absurd! Dying eased my personality—‘_ the sand evened itself quickly ‘ _— not my moral code.’_ The text disappeared. _‘Except where a certain convict is involved.’_

“Ex-con,” Valjean corrected automatically. A breath of air past his face mimicked the scoff he couldn’t hear.

At moment like these, he wished he _could_ touch. A gentle brush of fingers could convey his feelings so much better than putting them into words. The warmth that filled him inside at the feeling of that gentle, alien warmth around him was barely comprehensible to himself, let alone clear enough for Javert to sense.

The sand rustled and he looked at the tray. _‘It shows as glow,’_ it said.

Valjean stared. “What glow?”

 _‘Contentment = orange-pink pastels.’_ Erase. _‘Terrible taste, really, but there it is.’_

“You can _see_ my feelings?” It was a rhetorical question, albeit a surprised one. “Why didn’t you say?!”

  _‘Do you mention that you read facial expressions?’_

He had never thought about that, to be honest. When you imagine the afterlife, you automatically assume it will strongly resemble mortal life, minus the pain and suffering. It had never occurred to him that without a body, _everything_ changes. Even basic perception.

“So you know how I feel?”

_‘All the time.’_

Valjean blushed fiercely. He’d gotten used to the idea that doors and walls do not stop ghosts, but this shattered what was left of his privacy.

_‘I do still have decency, Valjean.’_

“Ah.”

_‘And I do have places to go other than your house.’_

Valjean was getting genuinely curious now. “Really? Where?”

The sand suddenly remained suspiciously still, as did the air.

“Javert?”

_‘You don’t need to know.’_

A contraction. Javert never used them unless distressed.

“Javert, please.”

 _‘If you must.’_ The sand cleared and remained empty for a moment. Then new letters appeared. _‘The Seine.’_

“The…?” Of course. He was a ghost, after all. According to folklore, ghosts haunted the place of their death. But then… “…why here? Why me?”

In all those four months, Javert had managed to avoid answering that question with such skill that Valjean had stopped asking. Now the air in the room had gone entirely still. The slight vibration that was always present when Javert was nearby had gone.

“Javert!” he called with growing anxiety. He got up from his seat, pacing around the room in search for any sign that he was not truly alone. “Javert, please! I didn’t mean to—”

The statuette fell over again, immediately followed by half a dozen books that got swept from their shelf. Valjean winced as they clattered onto the floor.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” he said quickly. “You know that!”

The only response he got was something moving in the corner of his eyes. On the mantelpiece, the two silver candlesticks rocked unsteadily in place. Valjean held his breath. The only other time that Javert had resorted to upending those was when he had first sought to draw Valjean’s attention. Back then, he had done so because he sensed their intense symbolic importance to Valjean.

“Please, don’t,” Valjean pleaded softly. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

For a long moment the candlesticks appeared to tilt, but then, very slowly, they settled back in place. The air in the room grew heavy and cold, making Valjean shiver despite himself. On the table, the statuette rattled to alert him to the sand.

_‘I’m here because you killed me.’_

Javert might as well have hit him in the face with those candlesticks.

“I… No, I let you go! You didn’t deserve to die, so I set you free!”

_‘And thus destroyed my beliefs. And me with it.’_

Shaking, Valjean sank to his knees by the table. “I never meant to… I didn’t know….”

For several seconds, the sand quivered under an obscure tremor before new letters appeared.

_‘I do not blame you.’_

“Wh—?” A hesitant but warm wind snaked up his arms, cutting him short. Valjean could have cried for relief at the sheer tenderness of that volatile touch.

 _‘I never understood mercy,’_ the letters in the sand read as the warmth spread over his back and neck. _‘Now, I can see you forgive others. See your mercy.’_ A hot patch flared in the crook of Valjean’s neck as he watched the text replaced. _‘I want to learn more.’_

“What could I show you?” Valjean sighed. “I forgave you long ago. That was why I set you free from the barricade…” Even as he spoke, the immense feeling he had felt when he had first held Javert blameless for whatever the man had done to him burst in his chest, like a bloom flowering once more. Javert’s presence enveloped him completely as it did.

_‘Show me. Share. So beautiful…’_

Valjean bit his lip to keep the tears in his eyes from falling. Embracing the love inside him, he wished with all his heart that he had recognized his own feelings for this formidable man in time. That he could have made Javert see this in life. It was so unfair!

“There is so much more I wish I could share with you,” he whispered wistfully.

The statuette wobbled softly in laughter. _‘I know. I see.’_

Valjean realized belatedly that the heat spreading to his face was not his own. His lips were on fire, the ghost of a touch coaxing him to open his mouth. Bewildered, he did. Immediately the unnatural heat filled his mouth, caressing his tongue until he reciprocated.

It felt so real that it didn’t make sense that he saw nothing. Instead he closed his eyes, determined not to open them unless Javert asked him to. Focusing on the feather light touches that spread over his body, he could picture Javert kissing him fiercely, pushing him back until he was lying down on the floor.

Valjean gasped sharply when the pressure on his mouth suddenly disappeared. For a moment he feared he was alone, but then he became aware of a slight pressure on his hips and sides, as if he was being straddled. More than welcoming the sensation, he lay back and enjoyed the warm air stirring his shirt.

Even with his eyes closed he could feel how all of a sudden the top button of his shirt came undone. “Oh?”

There was no reply, of course, but a soft touch caressed his face and he relaxed again, resisting the urge to undo the rest of his buttons himself. Javert must have practiced this, he wondered idly as his buttons slid through their buttonholes one after the other. Could it be that this was why he would sometimes find a complete mess of clothes piled at the bottom of his closet?

Up on the table, the statuette rocked lightly.

Valjean gasped again, deeper this time, when a breeze blew his shirt open and exposed his bare chest. A hot spot like a fingertip traced the numbers of his scar. Valjean felt a pang of embarrassment at that, but it was instantly forgotten when the heat jumped to his mouth, devouring him.

He writhed against the rough fabric of the carpet in delight as the kiss drew out longer and longer. Without another physical mouth to impair his breathing, it lasted far longer than he had dreamt possible. Strong hands, he imagined, lazily stroked his chest, turning pleasantly cold while hovering over his nipples.

“Oh God…” he whimpered. A whole different kind of pressure, one much more tangible, rapidly drowned out all other sensations in his lower abdomen. He wanted to reach down and undo his belt and trousers, but that would meant moving through where his body told him Javert was still straddling him.

His uncertainty must have shown in this world or the other, because the end of his belt slid through the loop without his interference. It was strange that while this happened, the alternately cold and warm touch on his chest didn’t stop. His mind could not put an image to so many hands working at him, but he readily accepted it anyway. The fastenings of his trousers came loose just as easily as the belt and the shirt buttons.

“You-you’ve been planning this, haven’t you?” Valjean moaned, unable to stop his hips bucking while his undergarment was pushed down over his erection.

There was nothing that constituted an answer, but with the cool, unnatural draft blowing gently over his now uncovered member, he didn’t really need one. 

“Sweet Heaven, this is… this is so…”

Before he could make that coherent sentence, the intense heat that he had previously felt in his mouth now wrapped around his cock. The sudden sensation left him choking in surprise and desire. “What’re you…” his voice trailed off in a moan as that familiar faint touch gripped him and pushed his sensitive skin with more care and tenderness than he could ever have bestowed on himself.

His body began to rock into the touch off its own accord. Insensible to anything but the heat feeding his own fire to an ever greater blaze, Valjean begged for more, for faster, harder, and more. Ever more.

The ghostly pressure increased but a fraction and even that might have been just his imagination. But it did move faster as he pleaded it to between increasingly ragged breaths. Eyes squeezed shut, his mind supplied all the visual encouragement he wanted. The big hands roaming his body, pinning him down and working his erection with enticing, quickening strokes.

“Harder,” he moaned longingly. “Please!” His body begged for the weight of a body against his, for a firm grip to push him to his climax. There was none. There could be none.

And yet, if he concentrated through the haze he could feel it: fingers stroked his throat, his chest, down to his hips. A hot presence licked his lips as a similar sensation shook his erection, teasing him endlessly, ceaselessly and well beyond endurance.

It was enough.

Valjean’s whole body wrecked as he came. He would have cried if he’d had the breath left for it. As it was, all he could do was grunt as his release spilled from him.

When the shudders in his limbs subsided, he didn’t move or open his eyes. In this precious moment, his body was so sensitive to everything that he could clearly feel the gentle, ghostly kisses that were planted on his cheeks and forehead while a warm breeze stroked his hair soothingly. Intensely grateful, he stayed still. He did not get up when a very natural chill on his abdomen told him he would need a bath some time soon. Only when the little statuette fell from the table, rolling over the carpet until its cold bronze touched his face and woke him from his reverie, did he push himself to sit up.

 _‘You are generous,’_ he read in the sand on the table. The moment he had, it disappeared again, to be replaced with: _‘You forgive and bestow mercy so readily.’_ Erase. _‘You give, you share, but take none for yourself.’_ Erase. _‘It confuses me profoundly.’_ Erase. _‘That is why I died and why I am still here regardless.’_

The quick succession of messages suggested Javert was severely agitated. He knew Javert would not want his pity, but Valjean wanted more than ever to return those fleeting, comforting touches.

“I wish I could help you.” If only to return a little of the peace that Javert’s wholely unlikely friendship gave him.

 _‘You do help.’_ Erase. ‘ _You show me what I do not understand.’_ Erase. _‘That is why I stay with you.’_

Valjean frowned in puzzlement. Maybe it was the post-climax haze, but for all his agitation, the word ‘satisfied’ seemed to fit the quality of Javert’s presence best.

 _‘Not satisfaction,_ ’ the sand spelled, _‘rather astonishment._ ’

“That makes two of us. For a ghost that can’t lift a pencil, you’re surprisingly tactile.”

It was merely a cold prickling at the back of his head, but Valjean felt he ought to interpret it as an exasperated slap. In the tray, new indentations appeared in the sand.

 _‘Astonished that it is you, Jean Valjean –’_ Erase. _‘—of all people! –’_ Erase. ‘— _who gives me what the Law could not –’_ Erase. _‘—and God will not.’_

Valjean bristled at that. “God guides us all, even you! I refuse to believe that God would turn his back on those as desperate for help as to take their own lives. The Lord’s love is bigger than that!”

Already fallen, the statuette rolled back and forth over the carpet. Valjean sensed it meant Javert was smiling.

 _‘Even so,’_ the sand trickled to shape the letters, _‘it is you who shows me Heaven.’_

 

 


End file.
